The ftage fhould have 'em all-but prudent we
Join 'Squire and Fool in one-and I am he!
Our Hero in the prologue took his rank,
Don Quixote he, and I his Sancho Panc'.
If ours should prove a windmill fcheme!-alas,
I know and, I will tell you, what will pass;
We all each fon of Thefpis, and each daughter,
Muft, for fweet* Bristol milk, drink Bristol water;
Which, though a cure for fome, who fall away,
Yet we, poor fouls! fhall feel a quick decay;
The wifeft face amongst us will look filly;
And mine may change its roses for the lily.
But how prevent this terrible condition?
There is one waybe you our kind phyfician
For you, with other doctors difagree,

And, when you make your vifits, give a fee.
Hold, cries a prude (thus rifing from her stays)
I hate a play-house, and their wicked plays;
O'tis a fhame to fuffer fuch an evil!

For feeing plays is dealing with the Devil!'
I beg your pardon, Madam -'tis not true;
We play'rs are moral folks—I'll prove it too.
Man is a froward child-naughty and cross,
Without its rattle, and its hobby-horse :
We players are little mafter's bells and coral,
To keep the child from mifchiefA'nt we moral ?
In fuch a happy, rich, and crowded place,
What would become of the fweet babe of grace,
Should not you a&t unkindly to refuse it,
This little harmless play-thing to amufe it?
Good plays are useful toys as fuch enjoy 'em-
Whene'er they make you naughty, then deftroy 'em.

The SHEE and the BRAMBLE-BUSH.

A

From Mr. CUNNINGHAM's Poems.

Thick-twifted brake, in the time of a ftorm,
Seem'd kindly to cover a fheep:

So fnug, for a while, he lay fhelter'd and warm,
It quietly footh'd him asleep.

The clouds are now fcatter'd--the winds are at peace,

The fheep to his pafture inclin'd;

But ah! the fell thicket lays hold of his fleece,

His coat is left forfeit behind.

A wine fo called,

My

My friend, who the thicket of law never try'd,
Confider before you get in;

Tho' judgment and fentence are pass'd on your fide,
By Jove, you'll be fleec'd to your skin.

RECEIPT how to make L'eau de Vie. By the late Mr. CHARLES KING..

G

Written at the Defire of a Lady.

ROWN old, and grown ftupid, you just think me fit,
JTo tranfcribe from my grandmother's book a receipt;
And a comfort it is to a wight in distress,

He's of fome little ufe-but he can't be of lefs,
Were greater his talents,you might ever command
His head,- -(“ that's worth nought")--then, his heart and
his hand.

So your mandate obeying, he fends you, d'ye fee,
The genuine receipt to make L'eau de la vie.

Take feven large lemons, and pare them as thin
As a wafer, or, what is yet thinner, your skin;
A quart of French brandy, or rum is ftill better;
(For you ne'er in receipts fhould ftick clofe to the letter);
Six ounces of fugar next take, and pray mind

The fugar muft be the beft double refin'd;

Boil the fugar in near half a pint of fpring-water,

In the neat filver fauce-pan you bought for your daughter;
But be fure that the fyrup you carefully fkim,

While the fcum, as 'tis call'd, rifes up to the brim ;
The fourth part of a pint you next must allow

Of new milk, made as warm as it comes from the cow.
Put the rinds of the lemons, the milk and the fyrup,
With the rum, in a jar, and give 'em a ftir up:
And, if you approve it, you may add fome perfume;
Goa-ftone, or whatever you like in its room.

Let it ftand thus three days, but remember to shake it;
And the closer you ftop it, the richer you make it.
Then filter'd through paper, 'twill sparkle and rife,
Be as foft as your lips, and as bright as your eyes.
Laft, bottle it up; and believe me the vicar

Of E- himself ne'er drank better liquor;
In a word, it excels, by a million of odds,
The nectar your fifter prefents to the gods.

PROLOGUE to the EARL of WARWIC K.

Written by Mr. COLMAN. Spoken by Mr. BENSLY,

S

EVERE each poet's lot: but fure moft hard

Is the condition of the Play-house bard:
Doom'd to hear all that wou'd-be critics talk,
And in the go-cart of dull rules to walk!

Yet authors multiply," you fay. 'Tis true,
But what a numerous crop of Critics too!
Scholars alone of old durft judge and write;
But now each Journalist turns ftagyrite.
Quintilians in each coffee-houfe you meet,
And many a Longinus walks the street.

In Shakespeare's days, when his advent'rous mufe,
A mufe of fire! durft each bold licence use,
Her noble ardour met no critic's phlegm,
To check wild fancy, or her flights condemn:
Ariels and Canibals unblam'd the drew,
Or goblins, ghofts, and witches, brought to view.
If to hiftoric truth fhe fhap'd her verse,
A nation's annals freely fhe'd rehearse;
Bring Rome's or England's ftory on the stage,
And run, in three fhort hours, thro' half an age.
Our Bard, all terror-ftruck, and fill'd with dread,
In Shakespeare's awful foot-steps dares not tread
Thro' the wide field of hift'ry fears to tray,
And builds, upon one narrow fpot, his play;
Steps not from realm to realm, whole feas between,
But barely changes twice or thrice his fcene.
'While Shakefpeare vaults on the poetic wire,
And pleas'd fpectators fearfully admire,

Our bard, a critic pole between his hands,

On the tight rope, fcarce balanc'd, trembling stands &
Slowly and cautioufly his way he makes,

And fears to fall at ev'ry step he takes:

While then fierce Warwick he before you brings,

That fetter-up and puller-down of Kings,

With British candour diffipate his fear!
An English ftory fits an English ear.

repay:

Though harth and crude you deem his firft effay,
A fecond may your favours well
Applaufe may nerve his verfe, and cheer his heart,
And teach the practice of this dangerous art.

EPILOGUE.

EPILOGUE. Written by Mr. GARRICK.

Spoken by Mrs. YATES.

Xhaufted quite with prifons, racks, and death,
Permit me here to take a little breath!

You who have feen my actions, known their springs,
Say, are we Women fuch infipid things?

Say, lords of the creation, mighty men!

In what have you furpafs'd us, where? and when?
I come to know to whom the palm is due;
To us weak veffels, or to ftronger you?
Against your conqu'ring fwords I draw-my fan,
Come on! now parry Marg❜ret, if you can.

[Sets herself in a pofture of defence. Stand up ye boafters! [to the Pit] don't there ineaking fit: Are you for pleasure, politics, or wit?

The boxes fmile to fee me fcold the pit.

Their turn is next, and tho' I will not wrong 'em,
A woful havoc there will be among 'em.

You, our best friends, love, cherish, and respect us,
Not take our fortunes, marry, and neglect us.
You think indeed, that as you pleafe, you rule us,
And with a frange importance often school us!
Yet let each Citizen describe a brother,
I'll tell you what you fay of one another.
My neighbour leads, poor foul, a woeful life,
A worthy man,-but govern'd by his wife!
How fay you!-what, all filent! then 'tis true,
We rule the City--Now, great Sirs, to You

}

[To the Boxes. What is your boaft? Wou'd you like me have done, To free a captive wife, or fave a fon? Rather than run fuch dangers of your lives, You'd leave your children, and lock up your wives. When with your noblest deeds a nation rings, You are but puppets, and we play the ftringsWe plan no battles-true,—but out of fight, Crack goes the fan, and armies halt or fight! You have the advantage, Ladies! wifely reap it, And let me hint the only way to keep it.

Let men of vajn ideas have their fill,

Frown, bounce, ftride, ftrút, while you with happy kill,
Like anglers, use the finest filken thread;

Give line enough, nor check a tugging head;

The

The fish will flounder, you with gentle hand,
And foft degrees, muft bring the trout to land :
A more fpecific noftrum cannot be,

Probatum efl--and never fails with me.

VERSES on a PEN; from a POEM lately published.

L

IGHT toy !-but'in a skilful hand,
More potent than a forc'rer's wand!
Nor talisman, nor charm, nor spell,
Nor all the witching tricks of hell,
Can with fuch potency controul,

And in enchantment hold the foul!

Its touches can create, transform,
Rouse fleeping Neptune with a ftorm :
Or bid the howling tempeft cease,
And rock old Ocean into peace:
Can fnatch from Time his fcythe at will,
And make his glowing wheels stand still;
Pluck from Decay its cank'ring tooth,
And give to Nature conftant youth.
Drawn by old Homer's hand, the rofe
Still on the cheek of Helen blows,
Her beauty fuffers no decay,
Nor moulders for the worm a prey;
Time's chiffel cuts no wrinkles in
The velvet-fmoothness of her fkin;
Nor can the thirft of old age fip
The dewy moisture of her lip;
And now her eyes as brilliant fhew,
As Paris faw them long ago.
For tho' her beauteous body muft
Have crumbled into native duft,
Yet ftill her features live in fong,
Like Hebe, ever fair and young.
Fades the thick leafy grove; the Pen
Can bid its verdure live again,
Can with imagination's dew,
Cherish each leaf to bloom anew,
And call forth greeneft wreaths t'endow
The Patriot's and the Poet's brow.
In a fine phrenfy of the foul

When Poets glance from pole to pole,

Bearing